Madness
by Redhead Maniac
Summary: Then, suddenly, "The angels are silent." Dean gives his friend a wary look, prompting him to go on. "I cannot hear them. Not anymore." Asylum!AU. Rated M for disturbing themes, explicit language, possible violence and sexual content. YES, THIS IS DESTIEL. And I am sorry I cannot give away more of the story, you'll just have to hope and read.


_**A/N:**__ My apologies if I messed some of the facts up, because I've obviously never been to this specific place (you shall find out)._

The water trickles down in rivulets over the outer side of the misty window, a tell-tale pitter-patter filling the chilly air of the room. It's bizarre to think that the world outside is bursting at the seams with smells and colours, the rich, dark scent of moist soil and the screaming, chaotic reds and yellows of the leaves, whilst inside it's anything but colour —a dull white and a slight whiff of an antiseptic from this morning's cleaning.

Two hours have passed since 9 AM, the time Dean got here and walked through the doors, carrying a small brown bag with two meat sandwiches and a small carton of orange juice, which he had to sneak past the security. Like hell was he going to let Cas starve to death, what's with him refusing to eat the crappy hospital food. Still, the angel only managed to consume half of the contraband-meal, and that was under Dean's pressure. Otherwise he wouldn't eat at all — he didn't need to, really. He didn't know why Dean couldn't grasp that simple concept, but he eventually resigned to entertaining the man. This way, it was less troublesome and ensured peace in the tiny room, at least for a while.

"So, how's your day?" Dean's gruff voice cuts through the silence, green eyes flicking back and forth from the gown-clad man to his unfinished breakfast.

"What do you think, Dean." Comes an unimpressed reply, and the tone implies that Castiel doesn't want to continue with that conversation.  
Dean tries anyway.

"Crappy, huh." He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, "I really wish you would eat."

"I did." And Dean doesn't push it any further, leaving the angel's eating habits alone. At least this time he managed half a bite, and that's a progress already.

"Cas, talk to me, buddy."

The angel ignores him, staring out the big window at the constantly shifting curtain of water. He looks sullen, a five-o'clock shadow adding to his dirtied look, although Dean knows for sure Cas washed last evening.

Days like this are becoming more and more common, and it makes the Winchester worry.

Then, suddenly, "The angels are silent."

Dean gives his friend a wary look, prompting him to go on.

"I cannot hear them. Not anymore."

"Which is..."

"Bad."

"Right." He thinks the opposite, but knows better than to voice his thought.

In the next fifteen minutes Dean manages to wolf down his own sandwich, check his phone for messages and tell Cas about his own morning and the weather broadcast for the next three days.

"So, I should probably go now, but, uh, I will try to come back later, okay? Around seven."

He doesn't think Cas even acknowledges him, but is surprised once more when the angel replies, "I'm worried for my brothers. Something must be wrong."

"I'm sure it's gonna be fine, Cas."

"No. No, I don't think so. I can..feel it. It isn't good, Dean." The angel shifts his focus on the man, and Dean can see his blue eyes charged with electricity, a worried crease forming on his brow. Castiel looks upset, and extremely anxious. "I must do something."

"Hey, ease up, Feathers. Let's wait before jumping to conclusions and doing something you'll come to regret." He stands up from the solitary chair in the room, picking up plastic wrappers and dumping Cas' leftovers into the same bag they came from.

"Try to have some rest, alright? I will be back in the evening." With that, Dean walks up to the door and makes his exit, shutting it behind him tightly.

He really, really hates this weather —it's doing nothing good for Cas, he's sure.

It's Saturday and the halls are empty,—they will be until noon, when the Center opens for visiting hours— bathed with dim light from between the clouds. Dean walks to the service building, through the courtyard and past the caf where a few patients are having brunch. He's happy to be here, despite what the others might think. Like Benny, for example, who keeps going on and on about how unhealthy and depressing it is that Dean chooses to spend his free time in a mental institution, and no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind. Then again, Benny is not very fond of his angel friend, for understandable reasons.

The man sighs, throwing the paper bag into a trash can as he passes, stopping in front of a simple-looking, yet sturdy door. Knocking twice and hearing "Come in" in return, Dean follows through with the invitation, finding himself inside Dr. Flynn's office. Dean finds the doc a pleasant, respectful man, and they've formed a sort-of-friendship during Dean's common visits.

"Hello Dean, it's nice to see you," The man smiles, looking up from his stack of papers and offering a handshake, which Dean takes. "Everything alright?"

The Winchester plops into a black plushy chair and nods absentmindedly, folding his hands in his lap.

"Yeah, I'm not sure if it's anything serious to report, but.. I feel that I should, you know? Just to be sure."

"What is it exactly you're talking about, Mr. Winchester? I assume it concerns our common friend?"

Dean nods again, "He worries me. This morning, when I came, he was very withdrawn — not that that's unusual —, but he actually said something about the angels." The doctor looks at Dean with piqued interest, shifting slightly forward in his seat, "Go on."

"He said he doesn't hear them. Not anymore."

Dr. Flynn contemplates this statement for a minute, looking up at his visitor.

"This is good news, I would think."

"Yes. Except that now Castiel is overly agitated and feels the need to do something —about the angels, I mean."

"Ah, I see where your concern comes from."

"I just want to make sure he's safe, that's all."

The doctor nods, standing up from the chair and fixing his glasses. "I will have to conduct a session with him on the matter, but I would assume that the agitation is a side-effect of his medication, so for now there is no need to worry, not too much at least." Dr. Flynn gives Dean a slight, warm smile, and then moves out from behind his desk, putting a hand on the man's shoulder, "Thank you, Dean, for your concern. Unfortunately it is not so common for friends and family to visit our patients, especially on a daily bases, and yet you signed up for the programme and keep coming back. I'm sure that Jimmy appreciates that."

Dean's smile is not as bright as he feels it should be, but it's there none the less.

"Yeah, well, it's the least I can do for him, isn't it?" He huffs a bitter laugh and stands up, "I have to go now though. Work, you know. And please Doc, if anything happens don't hesitate to call me, alright?"

Dr. Flynn nods, thinking what a good man Dean Winchester is —signing up for the Peer Group, coming to the Riverview Psychiatric Center almost on a daily basis for the past three months, and all for a man he isn't even connected to —Jimmy Novak, an admitted patient with a schizoaffective disorder.


End file.
